What Comes After
by GorgeousGreyMatter
Summary: "...she misses him every day, feels him like an amputee must feel a phantom limb. An empty space that throbs and itches, but she can't get relief." An AU-ish take on post-All Falls Down events .
1. Chapter 1

What Comes After

No matter how many times he closes his eyes, lets his mind go blank, he stills sees her. Sees her eyes, brimming with tears, and wide with fear as the silvery glint of the knife catches the moonlight streaking through the hallway. He remembers seeing a flash like that before—_right before_—and wonders now if it really was the knife, or if was it something, something else flashing across her pale, pale face. Something important. Something he missed.

Whatever it was, he never got to contemplate the fact, not really. Not as Fitz's manic grin burned itself into Eli's brain; as Fitz stuck the point of that blade into Eli's ribs like they were butter. Then all Eli remembers is darkness, thick and suffocating. Nothing else.

Clare is not so lucky. She remembers everything—every panicked, tensioned moment. Eli's eyes, pleading, terrified, even as the point of the knife broke through his skin. The look of shock, the choked recognition on his face as the dark blood began to bleed through his shirt. Blood dripping like a faucet Clare couldn't turn off. How even as she clutched him, hands pressed tight against his flesh, she couldn't turn it off. Couldn't make it stop.

She remembers how she couldn't let him go, held him tight in her arms simply because she knew, felt deep in her bones, that he was slipping away from her. He was slipping away to a place she couldn't follow. Even when someone, Mr. Simpson maybe, or the paramedic (she can't be sure), grabbed her waist and pulled away from Eli's crumpled form, she remembers reaching for him. Grasping and clawing at the air in front of her and screaming, despite the repeated "Clare, Clare it's all right, Clare. Let go. Let go. Let go."

But even now, after it all, she knows she couldn't ever let him go. Not really.

She fainted after that, after they lifted her into the air, after she saw the carnage laid out before her like some kind of slasher movie. Now, especially now, she finds she hates those movies even more.

* * *

When Eli opens his eyes, for a fraction of a second he almost doesn't remember where he is. But then he feels the sharp, throbbing pain in his side. It's an ache that makes his lungs convulse every time he tries to breathe. He hears the steady, consistent pulsing of the heart monitor, and its source, clipped tight to his index finger, synchronized with the drum beat of his body. Ready to sound the alarm in case it somehow falters. Though his room is dark, he knows it's daytime, because the curtains are illuminated by a glow that makes it seem like they're about to go up in flames. Knows that if here were to somehow get up out of this bed and pull the curtains back, the lights would blind him and send his senses into haywire.

Eli wants to stay there, suspended in the quiet darkness, but the ache in his side persists. When he looks to his left, he sees that his mother is there, holding vigil by his bedside, her slim body curled into the armchair in a position that surely can't be comfortable. Her forehead looks more lined than he remembers, her hair—normally pure and inky black despite her age seems to hold a grayish tinge, something he sincerely hopes is a result of the lighting, and not his current situation.

He opens his mouth, croaks out her name and she tenses, stirring immediately. Within an instant, she takes her place, asserts her role, hovering over his bedside, fluffing his pillows and calling his doctors.

He opens his mouth again and says the one word that's branded in his mind, the word he chokes out even though his throat feels like sand and his mouth tastes like he's spent the last few hours gargling gravel.

Clare. Clare. Clare. Clare.

His mom shakes her head. And later, when Adam is finally allowed to come in, with a face so ashen it looks like he should be the one lying in the hospital bed, he looks at Eli. And he knows.

He's lost her. She isn't his anymore.

* * *

Clare wakes up gasping, screaming, and clawing desperately at her sides. At the clothes she knows are soaked with his blood, metallic and sticky. But her mother is there as, waiting to take Clare into her arms, and she does—pins her tight against her chest even though Clare is thrashing and flailing.

It takes several minutes before Clare realizes where she is. And that her clothes have been exchanged for a blue checkered hospital gown.

"I didn't think you'd want them. I thought it would be best."

Yes, Clare thinks. Yes, it's best. Yes. Yes. Yes.

She repeats these words, a mantra, a prayer, as she washes her hands in the hospital sink until they're pink and raw and aching. But no matter how many times she washes them, uses the industrial grade antiseptic soap that could strip paint.

She can't get the blood off her hands.

Her mother doesn't ask if she wants to see him. Clare says nothing.

Eli spends the rest of the term at home, sulking. Adam brings him his work, but Eli can't get him to talk about Clare.

Adam doesn't want to be the messenger. And Clare knows he already feels strained, straddling the canyon growing between them. Knows he's being pulled apart, stretched towards both sides.

Eli wants to care, to sympathize, but he can't.

All he sees is blue eyes and curls and the freckles. Her whole face shines in his memories.

Eventually they both stop asking.

* * *

The only way Clare gets through the summer with her sanity left is to keep busy, a task her parents rise to with the utmost enthusiasm (so much so that their fighting seems to have evaporated in favor of what they deemed "more important issues"). Church groups with giggling girls and boys who've never spoken to them without their mothers present. Hiking and camping and family vacations. Board games and yoga and dancing. And church. Every Sunday without fail. Because her parents still think that Jesus heals and all of that. Can fill any void.

But Clare knows better.

Nothing works. Because she misses him every day, feels him like an amputee must feel a phantom limb. An empty space that throbs and itches, but she can't get relief.

She can't see him. Can't speak to him. Can't even think about him without remembering his face, the light leaving his eyes. And the blood. Always the blood. It's there, staining her ivory skin, blaring crimson against blinding white. She washes her hands so often these days that the skin perpetually flakes. She scratches at it constantly, leaving the backs of her palms puckered and enflamed.

Eli spends the summer in a daze. His parents let him be, because they've seen it before and they know that interfering doesn't do a thing. They just hope he's strong enough to climb out of the hole a second time.

Eli can't look his mother in the eye anymore. Every time he does, he seems her heart breaking a little more. Doesn't want to see the moment when he finally shatters it.

It takes two months before he can walk without wincing. Before he sleeps a full night without waking up drenched in cold sweat. Before he can shut his eyes and not see her face.

It worries him that when he sees it in his mind, it no longer warms him. Instead it leaves him shivering and he feels his blood run cold.

He can't get warm all summer. No matter how long he lies in the sun, the ground hard against his back, dust swirling in tendrils around his head.

He's freezing.

* * *

The first time they speak to each other is an accident. It's been more than six months but it feels like a decade. Fall has settled, leaving the air crisp and cool; the ground is littered with dead leaves, turned brown and soggy from the rain.

Eli sits with his back against Julia's headstone. He's lost count how many times he's come here. Feels like the only people he can talk to are six feet under the ground. Because he's starting to think he's halfway there. He's talking to himself, to her, truthfully, but from far away it looks like he's sitting in silence—his lips barely move.

He doesn't see her at first, but that doesn't matter, because he _feels_ her. Looks up and in the trees, following a procession of people dressed in black, she's there. Her hair is long again, and even from far away he sees that her lips are still the same shade of bubble-gum pink. A color that used to send his heart racing. Now, it gives a feeble thump, but those feelings have been dormant for so long it's like his body's forgotten how to react.

It's then that he realizes just how tired he feels.

* * *

Clare feels him too. How could she not? Despite the fogged haze she's been walking around in, her head snaps up almost immediately in recognition. She knows where he is without even really seeing him.

Her feet take her there before her brain figures out what her body is doing.

Eli almost doesn't believe it's her walking towards him. Like she's a mirage, like any second he's going to realize he's just a dying man in the desert with lungs full of sand.

She doesn't get too close to him. He knows she's keeping a safe distance and he can't blame her for it. Though he rises to his feet, a perfect gentleman, brushing the dirt off of his jeans.

But he still can't bring himself to speak because he still thinks, suspects, that she's not real. That she's some sick joke his own starving senses are pulling on him.

Utter one word and the spell will be broken.

Clare can hardly believe it's him. He's so gaunt, and pale, and his eyes—there's that deadened, leaded look about them. It's almost like looking in a mirror, because deep down she knows she looks just as bad.

"Eli…you look terrible." She finally offers, still unable to meet his gaze.

"_Well, I do try_." He retorts, with a grin she knows is fake, which makes the whole thing that much worse. She remembers how his old smile, devilish, proud, used to set her skin burning.

"_Who died?"_ He asks off-handedly, looking at his feet.

"One of the old ladies from our church. She and my mom were friends" Clare mumbles, biting her lip as if to keep more words from spilling out.

There's a heavy silence that falls between them before he finally speaks again.

"_I talk to her. Still. Do you think that makes me crazy?" _She doesn't need to ask who he's talking about. It's written all over his face, and on the gravestone at his feet.

"I think it makes you lonely. But I bet she's listening." Clare whispers, her eyes soft and pleading. In that moment he looks so scared, so vulnerable. She knows he's coming apart at the seams.

"_Well she's dead, so I doubt it."_

"Well, I have my beliefs…"

"_That must be nice."_ Eli's voice sounds so hollow that for a second she's not certain it's even him that's even speaking.

* * *

Eli knows he's made an error the moment he takes a step towards her. The leaves crunch underneath his feet and for some reason it's the loudest sound he thinks he's ever heard. But it snaps them both out of whatever it is that's happening here, and she goes stiff like some kind of frightened animal.

Her eyes are wild, and before he can say anything else, she bolts.

After their encounter in the graveyard, Eli walks around feeling a little bit warmer, just a little bit lighter. He holds their conversation inside, close to his chest, like it's a small light trying its hardest to see through the fog. He waits and he hopes.

Clare dreams every night after. She wakes up flushed, heart thundering, feeling like she's choking on her own tongue.

But no matter how hard she tries, she can't remember what the dreams are about.

.

END PART ONE

I have most of part II (the end) finished. I just put this part up her as a sort of test...you know, gauge response and what not.

Expect the end within the week.


	2. Chapter 2

Part II

It all comes full circle on Halloween. The night is typical of the holiday, clear and so cold Eli's breath freezes in midair, and his lungs protest each gasp that feels like a sting. The moon is full, and a pale, luminescent yellow. A harvest moon—giving everything its light touches a slight sickly tinge.

He's standing in Adam's backyard, underneath a string of gaudy, neon-orange pumpkin lights. The whole place is packed with costumed Degrassi students, some he recognizes, most he doesn't. They're dancing and laughing and drinking heavily, while the bass of some rap song he can't stand is blaring so loud that he feels like it's fighting against the natural rhythm of his own pulse.

Eli doesn't wear a costume (like he would in any instance). No one talks to him, and he makes no effort to try. He holds a beer in his hand just for the sake of holding onto something. He's had a few already, and his body teems with a kind of artificial static, and he feels pleasantly buzzed. A sense of security, albeit false, that he hasn't felt in months.

Clare is there. He knows the moment she walks in the room. She is with Alli, of course, who wears some ridiculous getup of spandex and lace. But not Clare, he notes with satisfaction. She wears a dress printed with pumpkins and black cats and a bow in her hair—which seems to him more like a halo than anything else. And he thinks his heart might burst at the sight of her. They are the prettiest girls there, without a doubt, and Eli can tell that everyone knows it…can see how every guy in the room has tensed in some way, rearranging themselves around the pair like planets orbiting the sun.

Eli watches as Drew, dressed in some absurd-looking zoot suit, drunkenly stumbles over to the girls, grinning maniacally despite the sour, disapproving expressions present on both of their faces. Eli hasn't really bothered to keep track of whether or not Drew is in the dog-house because it wouldn't really matter— he and Alli broke up and got back together as if it was something they scheduled on a daily basis.

Surprisingly, however, when Drew grasps Alli's arm, whispering roguishly in her ear, she laughs , a silvery, pleasant sound like bells, and before long, the pair disappear within the throng of people, hands clasped tight, passing secret smiles back and forth like no one else is watching.

Eli clears his throat, coughing on the sudden rush of jealousy flooding into his mouth, as bitter and acidic as bile. The taste is so wretched he nearly gags. In retrospect, he thinks this could also be the cheap beer but the after-effects are the same regardless.

Clare is left alone, feeling shy and more than a little lost. For the past few months, Clare has allowed Alli to essentially navigate the friendship, slipping into the passive role with a disturbing amount of ease. It's easier that way, allows her to hide in plain sight. To get through the year by being invisible again. With Alli gone, Clare feels exposed, unwilling to use the voice that has since gone into a relative state of hibernation. She notes with a surge of anxiety that a boy dressed in a cheap vampire costume (complete with blood capsules and plastic fangs) is making a beeline for her, and for a second she considers running. She decides a minute too late—he's made eye contact with her, a determined look set hard upon his face.

He's next to her in seconds, his face far too close to her own—so close that she can see the flecks of saliva on his lips, smell the booze saturating his breath. She can't help but shudder, recoiling from this gross and obvious invasion of her personal space.

"Hey, baby, I was—was watching you and I was wondering…" he slurs his words, his whole body sort of teetering back and forth, as if his center of gravity is somehow misaligned. The boy reaches for Clare, and his hands find her wrist, which he grabs onto as though it is the only thing keeping him upright.

Eli can't help himself. He has to watch her, can't tear his eyes away in fact. And when that—that moron—that disgusting…thing put his hands on her. He clenches his fist and the aluminum can in his hand crumples, letting out a final deflated death-whine. Fuck, he thinks, as the sting of sharp metal breaking the skin of his palm yanks him back to reality. The cut isn't deep, straight and pink as if he'd done it with a razor. But blood starts to pool around it, and he sucks his fingers angrily, dropping the can on the floor and kicking it away.

"Hey man, 's a parrrrtty you're s'posed to be havin' fun…look like someone killed your cat. Or tried to make you wear primary colors."

Eli feels someone clap him on the back and turns around, fully ready to pick a fight because he feels just about ready to jump out of his own skin. He pauses, mouth open, when he realizes it's Adam.

A really, really wasted Adam. A really wasted Adam who happens to have an equally inebriated Fiona Coyne draped around his narrow shoulders.

"Yeaaaah! A paaaarrrty!" Fiona echoes. Eli cringes as the Coyne girl's voice cuts through the fog in his head like the sharp crack of a whip. The girl could probably break through the sound barrier if she tried hard enough. Adam gives him a watery smile and Eli just shakes his head.

"Yeah, great party. Really, but I think—think I'm just going to head home."

Eli wants to look at Clare, but in the state he's in, senses cloudy and muscles coiled to spring, he knows he shouldn't. Adam and Fiona both make pouty faces that are eerily, eerily similar, reminding Eli of that fact that Adam is actually a girl—a fact he forgets more often than he originally thought he would.

"Kk..k, dude, "Adam slurs and then giggles, him and Fi still clinging to each other for dear life. "Just—you know, don't drink and drive-and shit."

Eli nods and starts weaving his way through the crowd that seems to have gotten denser in the span of a few minutes, and he has to push and shove his way through to get into the house. Inside, the air is a haze of smoke and sweat and he dodges bottles and bodies until he finally reaches the front door.

When he steps out onto the lawn he gasps for air like a dying man. He sees Morty parked on the street and starts to step towards the car, already imagining himself at home, collapsing on his bed and becoming dead to the world. He feels so tired. Always so tired.

But his brain still feels heavy, fogged, and Adam's voice, annoyingly persistent with its warning rings in his head. "Dammit," he curses, and starts walking down the deserted block, and tries to shake off the sleepy, slight drunkenness of his limbs. The street is quiet and all he hears is the heavy thud of his boots as he walks, and the fluorescent buzz of the streetlights around him, like a hallway full of bees' nests. He walks and doesn't think about where he is going.

What Eli doesn't see is Clare pushing past her insistent suitor, doesn't see her yank her wrist out of the boy's clammy grip that feels so very wrong.

Eli doesn't see Clare's eyes following him across the yard as he makes his escape. He doesn't see her trailing him out of the house. Doesn't know she's there watching him traipse down the street, just a dark figure stepping into the shadows.

Clare watches him go, thinks she hasn't seen anyone look so lonely. Except, of course, for these past months when she dared herself to actually look in the mirror. She stands uncertainly on the sidewalk, and feels the pull—the same one that led her to him in the graveyard. The same one she's been fighting since that night where she almost lost him. She wrestles blindly with her consciousness. The voice that tells her to stay put and just…Let. Him. Go.

But she inches forward anyway and knows the battle is lost. Knows that tonight things will change but she cannot say how. Not yet.

She walks far behind him, not even sure what she's expecting. Just knows she doesn't want to lose him, not again. Several minutes pass and Clare stares at her feet, looking up every once and awhile just to make sure she can still see Eli, see the light reflecting off of him, creating moving shadows on the sidewalk that makes Clare think he's surrounded by a pack of shadow beasts—clawing and scratching him in the dark.

She becomes so lost in this illusion that she doesn't notice Eli has slipped off the street.

A hand grasps her arm and pulls her off the road. Her back hits something hard, uneven and rough and she realizes she's been pushed against the trunk of a large, ancient oak tree. She opens her mouth to scream, but the sound, low and harsh, of _his_ voice catches her off guard and she is suddenly mute.

"_Why are you following me?"_

His eyes are so dark. She can't think and says nothing, until finally she blurts out the first thing that comes to her mind:

"You're not wearing a costume."

His expression momentarily softens and he laughs. But it's bitter, and it grates rather than soothes.

"_Thanks for the memo. I'll remember next time."_

Clare thinks she knows why he doesn't wear one. Why would you need a costume when you're already a ghost? She fights with the impulse to touch him, make sure he's solid and not some spirit that will pass through her like mist. Just leave her cold and empty. She opens her mouth again and everything comes spilling out before she can stop it.

"I tried so hard. I tried so hard to let go of you. I should hate you. But I-I—"

Clare feels the burn of hot tears start to prick at the corners of her eyes and she turns her head. She can't let him see her cry. "It feels like someone's ripped me into pieces," her breath comes in gasps like she's about to hyperventilate.

Eli had known almost immediately that she was following him. After all, sneaking around never really was Clare's forte. Already in a strange mood, he finds that he doesn't welcome her new boldness, not at first. In fact, he feels angry. Furious…that she stands there, crying, as if he's chosen to hurt her like this. Chosen to keep them apart. As if he's wanted this, wanted to feel like someone's cracked open his ribs and tore out his insides.

"If you'll remember. I wasn't the one who chose this! I never stopped wanting—," he starts, his voice sounding shockingly cruel, even to his own ears.

"_No." _Clare hisses, and grips the front of his jacket. _"You left me. You left me all alone. You left me lying on that floor covered in your blood."_

He steps forward, closing the distance between them. But it's a predatory move, and he notes with a sick sense of satisfaction that despite her outburst, she shrinks against the tree trunk, nails scraping against the bark.

"You want me to promise that I'll never hurt you again. That I'll never piss you off, never make you cry, never break your heart. Well I can't. No one can promise you that."

She's practically sobbing now and instead of feeling pleasure, Eli feels another surge of self-hate and disgust bubble up in his throat and he thinks for a moment that he really might throw up.

He shuts his eyes, backs away, and tries to calm himself. He breathes in the scent of her hair. Apples. Always apples. It curls into his senses like sweet smoke. And he's floored suddenly by a memory from a time that feels so long ago.

_He and Adam had smoked a joint. Adam had never done it before, and Eli remembers fondly how god-damned nervous and paranoid the poor guy had been…before he'd even taken the first hit._

_By the time they'd smoked the thing, they were both just sort of sitting there, the air feeling all weighted and the acrid but kind of pleasant taste of the pot still on their tongues. And Adam looked all spaced out and he finally just spit out some random thing, about girls, and Eli sort of grunted at first. And Adam just said, "Girls, man. They always smell like something good, you know? Like…vanilla or cinnamon—"_

"_Or apples." Eli murmured, swearing to god that all he could see was blue eyes and cinnamon hair on the back his eyelids. _

"_Yeah. Apples and shit. Fuck…how do they do that?"_

His words hit her like bullets. "Stop it, Eli," she whispers. Clare wants to grab onto him and shake him and tell him to just do something, _anything_, because she can't stand just feeling so god-damn _broken_.

"_Go back to the party, Clare." _Eli's voice is forceful, but even in the dark she can tell that if she could really see him, his eyes would be gentle.

If she was smart—if she was logical, if she had any sense of self-preservation, she would listen to him. But right now the last thing she wants is to turn around and go back into that house. She can't, not without knowing…

"Eli. Please."

She's so close and Eli's clenching his fists so tightly that his nails are digging into his palm.

"Clare, don't. Just don't."

Why does she have to be so damn close? He can't think or even breathe when she's so close.

"_Eli_." And suddenly she's touching him, her fingers grazing his cheek, brushing the hair off his forehead. He literally has to bite the inside of his mouth just to keep from letting out a noise he knows would be anything but decent. Any kind of self-restraint he has is thrown out the window; grabbing her hand he surveys it for a moment before bringing it up to his lips. When he runs his lips over her fingertips, he grins when he feels a shiver run up Clare's arm, hears her gasp.

Clare's eyes almost roll into the back of her head when he touches her skin. She'd almost forgotten how the slightest touch from him could make her burn. She doesn't want to think anymore. She only wants to feel. She rests her head on Eli's chest a moment before standing up on her tiptoes, nuzzles a spot on his neck before closing her lips over hot flesh, tasting salt and soap.

Eli knows right then he wants to swallow her whole. He grips her shoulders, pulls her to him, and crushes their mouths together. The kiss is rough, sloppy at first, teeth bumping and clicking together as they both try to find some kind of rhythm. But then its there, pulsing between them like someone's flipped a switch and turn on the electricity. She tastes sweet like candy and fruit gum, and god he's missed her.

Clare moans against his mouth and her hands are fisting in his hair, sending a quiver up his spine when she yanks hard on the strands. He grips her tight, one hand braced against the bark, pressed so close to her that feels her sharp hipbones through his jeans. He doesn't hear anything but the thundering boom of his own heartbeat and their ragged breathing.

Clare's practically panting, and her brain is so fuzzy and fogged all she feels is heat, and breath, and skin, and she wants. Doesn't know what. Just wants. Eli nips and sucks a trail of hot kisses down her jaw and she's pulling at his clothes and his hair just to do something, anything, with her hands because if she stops touching him she thinks she might die. It feels like her body's been shocked with jumper cables. For the first time in months she feels so alive it almost hurts. His tongue slides against the seam of her lips and she opens for him, gladly, and she tastes the mint of his toothpaste and a just a hint of the beers he's drank.

Eli doesn't believe in God, but when Clare touches him, it's like the laying on of hands, absolving his sins, scraping off the layer of tough scar tissue that's formed over his body and his heart like a glass cage. When she sucks on his tongue, his whole body hums with energy, like he's been dragged out of hibernation, out of the cold and into the sun. He's not used to the brightness, but it's the kind of burn that feels so damn good. And he feels so warm.

Finally, they break apart, gasping, clutching each other as if they're both afraid that one of them will suddenly disappear.

Eli pulls her against his chest and kisses the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair.

"_I will never leave you again."_

Clare closes her eyes, hears the soft thrum of his heartbeat, and for the first time in ages, she doesn't see blood on the backs of her eyelids.

[A/N]...don't worry, this isn't really the end. I have midterms and this story has sort of morphed into something longer. Part III will definitely be the end though.

So...yes. I hope you enjoyed this part.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N-Nope, not the end. College is kicking my ass and I'm having trouble finding time to finish this. So I wrote you guys this sort of interlude-type thing. Not a full chapter, but hopefully it will tide you guys over? PLEASE DON'T HATE ME

Interlude

It's almost surreal how easy they slip back into the routine of before. As if the last ten months or so had simply been a bad dream, some kind of sick joke. As if someone had decided the dream was over and pinched them both awake. They still feel a little dazed, a little bleary-eyed, but they are content. They are hopeful.

Eli picks her up and takes her home from school every day. He often wonders what Mrs. Edward's reaction was when she looked out her window on that first brittle November morning after Halloween and saw that clunky, long-forgotten hearse roll up next to the sidewalk of her prim, suburban neighborhood. Eli likes to think he's above finding pleasure in what he imagines—Clare's mother's mouth forming that same harsh, disapproving line like the first he came over for dinner—but he cannot lie, can't pretend that the thought doesn't fill him with a sense of smugness, a sense of pride.

He does not delude himself, however, and he knows he has stepped into a kind of probationary period. He is still on trial here, and the verdict is yet to be determined. Clare is happy, yes, affectionate, yes, but she is hesitant. There is still a distance, albeit small, between them, and the mere fact that he remains cognizant of this only fuels his desire to prove the sanctity of his word. Eli does not find this difficult. He cannot fathom leaving her again. Not after the first time nearly destroyed them both.

Clare tells no one they have reunited as a couple. She doesn't have to. Everyone looks at them and knows, sees the change. They find themselves pulled back into that vortex—Degrassi coupledom, the one that tries to turn them into ClareandEli, a single, lumped being. But Clare knows that she and Eli stand outside of this. They are not like the others, the "normal" ones.

Their public affection towards each other is minimal at best. It goes no farther than gentle touches: a thumb grazing her wrist, a palm placed gently on the small of her back, fingertips pushing the fine strands of her hair off of her neck. The gestures still possess the power to send Clare's heart racing, cause her feet to stick to the floor. Because when their hands touch, she still feels it—that electric charge pass between them, racing up her spine, forcing every cell in her body into panic-mode. They are not like the others, AliandDrew, KCandJenna, who paw at each other, cling like drowning victims trying to stay afloat.

She prefers it this way. Likes the idea that the passion, the flame is just for them. Private and kept away from prying eyes. She cannot deny that she is still afraid. Sometimes she sees him still, standing before her, hand outstretched. When she touches him, he crumbles to ash at her feet.

But no one is happier at the new reunion than Adam. He flits around them like a bird flapping its wings, grinning ear to ear, flailing his arms as he gestures excitedly about this or that. They are plural again, the misfits, and they fall back into a perfect alignment. It is good again. It is right.

Eli and Clare spend most of their time together. It is an easy thing, natural, and Eli appreciates how Clare and he can spend hours together without saying a word—yet leave each other knowing so much. It scares Clare sometimes, how he can read her as if her heart has been written out all over skin in flesh and bone.

Many nights they spend in the hearse doing nothing more than lying down together, arms and limbs entwined like a puzzle only they can figure out. Clare rests atop Eli, her bare feet curled between his heavy black boots. They drift together in and out of consciousness, a dream-like lethargy, with their heartbeats and breathe in sync like the crest and swell of a wave. Sometimes Clare closes her eyes and it feels like they are floating in the middle of the ocean and she can practically feel the spray of saltwater and breeze. Eli's fingertips wind through her hair, weaving some kind of elaborate web she can't see and she puffs warm breath into the hollow of his throat..

If they kiss at all, it is slow, lazy and drawn out—Eli tends to hold on too long until she sees white and yellow spots popping in and out of her vision and she has to pull away, gasping.

Looking back, Eli remembers the moment he knew that they would last. That they would be okay. He remembers Clare sprawled against him, hands skimming over his chest with a boldness he still hadn't become accustomed to. How her nimble fingertips had toyed with the buttons of his shirt, teasing each one open. How he'd grabbed her wrist and stared into those ocean eyes with a mixed expression of awe and curiosity.

How she'd smiled at him, a simple smile but so bright it nearly burned his eyes out and he'd had to stop himself from looking away.

Clare remembers that night too, how he'd looked at her so concerned as if she couldn't possibly be aware of what she was doing. But she did know. Knew exactly her purpose, as she nudged his shirt open, revealing the smooth expanse of his chest, practically iridescent in the moonlight.. She drew her fingertips across the muscled plane, nails grazing lightly the way his breath literally caught in his lungs sending a shiver through her body like the time she'd stuck her finger in an electrical socket as a child. But her roving hands had stopped at the spot below his ribs, where a line of red and discolored stretch of scar tissue stood out clear, pink against white.

Eli had wanted to stop her, push her off him, anything to keep her from touching that part of him. The only visible proof that he had nearly ruined her. To him it still felt like a gaping wound, a black hole, ready to contaminate and spread its evil with any who came into contact. His Clare, clean, pure, warm and perfect—he hadn't wanted that kind of darkness spreading through her veins,

"Don't," he'd whispered pleadingly, trying to coax her forward into a kiss instead.

She shook her head and did something Eli had not expected—she'd braced against his chest, pinning him down. Powerless.

And then he'd felt it. The soft pads of her fingertips stroking the scar, almost reverent. She'd bent her head and touched the scar again—this time with the softest brush of lips.

There had been a moment of tension, brief and weighty, where they'd stared at each other, Eli's eyes wide in disbelief. Then he'd broken first, taking her head between his hands and crushing their mouths together. He'd nipped and bit at her lips with more aggression than he'd ever allowed himself to show. Even after Clare had tasted that metallic flavor of blood, liking licking a penny, seep into her mouth she had not resisted.

_I love you. I love you. I love you. _ He'd had breathed it against her lips, her forehead, her neck, her chest. It flowed from his lips and into hers like water into wine. Clare remembers his mouth as a brand, searing the words onto every part of her. How she'd clutched onto him like someone grasps at tree branches in a hurricane. Like someone passing through the eye of a storm.

"Why are you crying?" he'd asked her when he'd finally pulled away. She had laughed at this and kissed his eyelids.

"I'm not crying. You are."

And Eli had reached up, felt the sting of salt and moisture on his cheek. This, he'd figured out, was what redemption felt like. Clare's hair falling over him like a heavy, silk curtain, her tongue lapping at the hot tears still trailing delicately down his face. He had turned his gaze upwards towards the sky and seen stars blazing straight through the window, seen starlight dappling Clare's ivory skin, snaking its way through her curls and her clothes until she practically glittered.

He had looked at the moon and then at her and known he was absolved.


End file.
